The whole ridiculous plan had started when Alex had, half-jokingly, muttered in bed one night that they’d need a believable excuse for how often he kept flying over.

“Can’t exactly tell the tabloids ‘Oh, I’m just popping across the Atlantic to sleep with the heir to the British throne,’ can I?” Alex had grumbled into Henry’s shoulder.

Henry, wicked grin already forming in the dark, had murmured, “Then perhaps you’re learning something useful from me.”

“Like what? Knitting? Polishing silverware?”

“Riding lessons,” Henry had said, voice silk-smooth, and Alex had groaned because he knew, instantly, Henry was going to milk this for everything it was worth.

And so the public line had been born: Prince Henry was teaching the First Son of the United States how to ride. Horses, of course. Elegant. Harmless. Nobly pastoral. It had been such a perfect cover that the Palace PR machine had practically swooned over it.